7 Sins
by lamentomori
Summary: Seven sins, seven stories. A collection of tales that document a relationship that is built on mutual interests, passions and loves. (It's just smut.) Warnings: Slash, profanity, skewed timelines and potential misuse of foodstuffs. Colt/Punk
1. 7 Sins: Lust

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: smutty shower sex, mild profanity

* * *

You knew the ending of the match; you'd been part of the discussions on how it was going to go down. What you didn't know was how it was going to affect you. Punk bound to the ropes by his wrists. Your Punk bound and helpless, on his knees gasping for breath at the mercy of another man. You didn't think the image would affect you this much. You feel genuinely bad for the match you just phoned in but every time you close your eyes, you see Punk his arms tied part, his hair dyed red with blood hanging over his face, legs spread, chest heaving and every time, your singlet feels a little less comfortable.

You know Punk well enough to know that he'll have not showered yet. He doesn't mind sitting around in his own blood and sweat to wait out your matches or more likely to try to get good road stories out of Dreamer, something you had both been at it all day. You feel kind of bad for Dreamer, you suppose he was probably expecting there to be the usual hello sirs but you doubt he was expecting to be bombarded with questions about what it was like way back when. You wonder if Raven warned him about you and Punk, wonder if he mentioned that you were both more likely to ask obscure questions about road trips than discuss spots. You think you both at once amuse and exacerbate Raven, he indulges you both a lot more than you were expecting him to but you think he has a soft spot for Punkers, probably sees something of himself in Punk's propensity for ranting and ability to rile up even the most placid of people.

As you expected, he's cornered Dreamer and is grilling him when you get to the back. Raven is perched on a table watching the situation with vague amusement. You jut your chin at him as a greeting. He smirks at you but offers no further acknowledgment of your existence.

"Punkers, you're still covered in blood. Come on and shower?" You force it to sound like a question, whilst you are certain that either most people know or suspect that there is more between you and Punk that best friends forever, you don't want to confirm it. Although, you are one hundred percent certain Raven knows, the lazily amused leer he gives you sometimes leaves you in no doubt that he one, knows you and Punk are fucking and two, unlike most other people assume, that you are the one doing the fucking. Raven is entirely too sharp for your liking but he seems content to watch and laugh at you both from a far. Punk shrugs and makes some kind of vague excuse me to Dreamer before following you to the showers. As you close the door you hear Raven bark out a laugh, you flick the lock and put him out of your mind.

Punk has already turned the shower on by the time you turn to face him, water running over his hair, washing the red out, sending pinkish streams over his face, he squints at you through them. You press him back against the tiles of the shower and kiss him gently before letting the water clean the blood from his face. Once the water runs clear over his features, you kiss him, hard and fast, all teeth and tongue and groping hands. You clutch at his ass, squeezing, kneading, parting his cheeks and letting one finger press against his hole.

"Want you." You gasp into his ear, nibbling at the lobe, he pants softly and chuckles.

"Fuck me then." You thank your foresight for the fact you carry lube in amongst the contents of the little bag you carry with various showering supplies in and pour an overly generous amount into your hand. You slide one finger into to him, feeling him shiver against you. "More." He demands so you ease a second and third finger in quickly, moving them back and forth at a firm steady pace. He rocks back against your fingers and takes one of his hand from around you to start stroking his cock.

"Nuh-uh, bad Punkers." You grasp his wrist and he whines deliciously in your ear, his breath warm and soft, sending a shiver down your spine. You pull your fingers from him. "Turn around." He readily complies and braces himself against the wall, the water from the shower running in rivulets along his back, over the curve of his ass, down those beautiful thighs. You smile at him as he turns his face to you, pressing his cheek against the wet tiles, his chest heaving for breath, his eyes taking on that hazy gleam they get when he's overly aroused. "You okay?" You ask him softly, stroking his cheek.

"Fuck me." He pants breathily. You squeeze more lube into your palm and spread it over your length. "Hard and fast, I need it." He manages to make his request sound more firm. You groan and press into him fully in one long hard stroke. He makes an odd strangled little noise and his head falls back to your shoulder. You kiss his neck as it's exposed to you.

"You have no idea how fucking hot you looked all tied up out there." You tell him as you begin to move. "How close I was to coming out and fucking you in front of all those people." He shivers in your arms again. "You really need to not let people talk you into being restrained; it does bad things to me." You bite his neck firmly and thrust with hard short strokes into him, hitting his prostate, making him moan loudly. "You on your knees, gasping for air, that is for _me_ to see, no one else." You tell him, licking and biting his throat, pounding into his body, pressing against his prostate firmly, ripping moans and gasps and your name from him. You don't doubt that if he could, he would give you some kind of witty reply but he's too far gone for that. "How many of those marks do you think are gonna go home and beat one out to the thought of you all bound like that, huh?"

"Colt." He groans turning his head to catch your lips in a harsh kiss. "Shut up and fuck me." You smirk at him and speed your thrusts up, taking his cock in your hand, stroking him at the same pace, his hips torn between rocking back onto your cock or pushing forward into your hand. You aren't going to last much longer, you can feel him tightening around you; all it'll take to send him over the edge is a few more strokes. When his orgasm hits, his body quivers slightly in your hold, you still within him and as he comes down, you thrust into him as fast and as powerfully as you can, filling him with your come, pressing your face to his shoulder. "Fuck." He gasps, still panting for breath as you pull out of him. The water is beginning to cool so you both wash quickly, shutting the water off before all of the hot supply is used.

In the locker room you dress quickly, the bite you left on his neck is laughed off as a mark from the dog collar. You are incredibly glad Raven has already left; you don't doubt that he wouldn't believe the easily told lie. The rest of the boys eventually clear out of the locker, leaving you and Punk alone once more. You are dressed waiting for him to get ready himself, when he says.

"You know how you liked me tied up with my clothes on?" He pulls his shirt over his head, shoves his damp hair into a messy tail and tosses you a roll of athletic tape. "The bed at the hotel has these slats in the headboard."

* * *

Today my Saturday tutoring student decided he wanted to watch Se7en... This popped into my head. I blame my Colt muse he is not pleased that I am working on something without him in it. Next 6 parts will be up when they're written, be warned they're all smutty... Smutty Smut of smuttyness...


	2. 7 Sins: Gluttony

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: profanity, dubious of syrup, slash

* * *

You wake to the smell of pancakes and a terrible pounding headache. You have vague recollections of a bar and someone asking you to leave politely. You have a half memory of leaning against Punk's shoulder and telling him you loved him, followed by him laughing and agreeing that of course you loved him, every fucker in the car loved him. You think D was still with you at this stage of the night because you remember him going into a rambling rant about how everyone loved Punk because he was the only person in the World who could and would drive their drunken asses around. You are not sure if this was a rant from last night or a rant from a different time you've all been out drinking though; D has this rant often. The many virtues of Punkers being straight edge are extolled often by a drunken Homicide.

"You okay?" He asks you, dressed in yesterday's clothes carrying two plates stacked with pancakes. He must have slept on the sofa or maybe the floor, you're lying in the middle of the bed feeling like hell but there is no indication that you've shared the bed during the night. You make a vague noise rather than a response to his question and grabby hands at the plate. Food is a good idea, talking is not. He sets both plates down on the bed and crosses the room, to the table by the door, returning with a cup of coffee in each hand, cutlery in his pant's pocket and a little bottle of syrup between his teeth. You gratefully accept the coffee, chugging a third of it before feeling able to answer his question.

"I'll live. Remind me to never ever drink again." You start to pour syrup over your stack of pancakes, as he snorts at you, a wry grin twisting his lips.

"I'll remind you and you'll ignore me. You need to be thicker skinned Cabanarama, like me." He starts chomping down on his own pancakes, which are swimming in syrup. "How many times do _I_ have to decline a drink every time we end up in a bar after a show?" He smirks at you and you scowl at him, as you continue eating ravenously.

"She was _really_ hot, though, Punkers!" Your protestations fall on deaf ears as he laughs at you.

"I know exactly how hot she was, Colt." His smirk makes your scowl deepen, you finish eating and watch him lick his plate clear of syrup. The smirk doesn't waver, even as he collects the plates and dumps them back on the table by the door. "And the answer is not all that." He smirks at you again and moves to join you on the bed. You scoot over to one side, giving him space to flop down beside you. "You have _horrible_ taste in women, Cabana." He smirk seems to be a permanent feature this morning. He leans back against the headboard, grabs the mostly full syrup bottle and starts squeezing the syrup on to his right pointer finger, a little sweet, sticky line that he then proceeds to suck off the digit. "It's like you're a magnet for the worst of the hideously skanky rats, I swear. I have never seen a man who attracts more whores than you, Colt." He repeats his actions with the syrup, his finger leaving his mouth with a pop.

"It's not my fault all the nice girls want a scruffy, unwashed hobo." You mutter watching him continue to consume the syrup, his finger now damp with saliva. "They just don't appreciate my wholesome charm."

"Wholesome charm, eh?" He snorts and leers at you, waggling his eyebrows. You laugh and groan.

"Oh fuck, my head. You need to stop me next time. Drinking is very bad for Cabanas, we don't get enough practice." You close your eyes and rub at your temples. You hear him get off the bed and start shuffling around the hotel room. When he returns to the bed, it's with a glass of cool water and two aspirin. You take them from him gratefully, washing the little pills down with water and sipping the rest of the glass carefully. "You're such a good nurse." You tell him.

"Fuck off." He returns to eating the syrup and you return to watching his finger moving in and out of his mouth, his eyes lazily half-lidded. "The fuck you staring at me for?" He asks around his finger.

"Are you seriously planning on eating all of that?" You make a vague, half-hearted gesture to the bottle in his left hand, you'd been staring at his lips as they pursed around his finger, in your mind you replace that slender digit with something larger, something less attached to him and more to you. Whilst the idea is pleasant, your head is killing you and the pancakes you gobbled down are beginning to feel like they might want to leave. "You'll get even fatter and bitch about it worse than a woman." He scowls at you and takes a swipe at your head. You quickly move out of his reach and regret it instantly. "Oww. Fuck, I am _never _drinking again."

"Serves you right." He's still scowling, well if you're honest he's pouting but Punk would argue that he never pouts.

"Have a little sympathy!" You moan clutching your head.

"I have no sympathy for self-inflicted injuries." He snaps sticking his syrup-covered finger back in his mouth.

"Asshole." You groan and close your eyes. The curtains in the hotel room keeping the light low, the only real sounds are your own breathing and the noise of him sucking on his finger, the dull light and low noises make you feel sleepy. You've almost dozed off when his voice sounds quietly.

"I suppose, I _could_ do something to make you feel better." You hear him shuffling around on the bed but can't find the motivation to open your eyes to look at him. You sense him hovering over you; feel the familiar warmth of his body over you. He brushes his lips over your temple. You crack an eye open to look at him.

"Not tonight honey, I have a headache." You groan, he laughs and kisses you. He tastes far sweeter than usual, the cloying sweetness of the syrup over-riding his natural flavour. He pulls back from you and you lean forward chasing his lips. "Well, I guess you make a good argument. Just don't expect much from me, okay." He smiles at you and lets you claim your kiss.

"I generally don't expect much from you, Colt." He presses gentle kisses along your throat. You make a soft noise as he sucks, licks and nibbles a spot at the hollow of your throat. He leans back from you and grabs the bottle of syrup.

He trails a line of syrup down your chest, from sternum to navel, then chases it with his tongue, dipping into to the little pool of it that gathered in your belly button. You moan softly, his licks feel entirely pleasant, only mildly arousing though, his tender ministrations no match for your hangover. He drizzles more of the syrup over your left nipple and sucks it gently, absently tweaking the right before switching sides, pouring more of the syrup onto your right nipple, his fingers playing with the left. You moan and palm the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

He seems to tire of your chest quickly enough and moves to strip you fully. You raise your hips to let him tug your boxers down and off. He licks your half-hard cock and you feel your length hardening as he suckles the tip. He works you, with his mouth and hand, to full hardness, bobs his head up and down, taking you deeper each time. After a few minutes of this, he grabs the syrup once more and pours a little over you. You shiver as the cool liquid runs down your length; his tongue chases it, lapping the syrup from you. He repeats his actions with the syrup several times, your hips bucking up as he licks you. Eventually, he leans back from you; your hands go to his head, trying to guide him back down.

"Stay still." He murmurs as he concedes to the pressure, his hands pinning your hips to the bed. His mouth sliding down your length, you feel his throat working around you, taking you as deeply as he can. He moves over your cock, letting your length enter his throat on each bob down. His hands keeping you still, despite your natural inclinations to buck your hips, to drive your length into his tight throat. Your hands clutch at his hair, tugging on the bleached strands, you aren't sure if you are trying to speed him up or slow him down though. You feel one of his hands move from your hip to fondle your balls, rolling them in his palm, caressing them gently. You moan his name softly. His other hand leaves you and moves to take his own erection in hand, stroking himself quickly. His moans of pleasure making his throat vibrate around you. Without the restraints of his hands, you buck your hips into him, driving your cock deeper into him. When he comes the noises he would have made are muffled by your cock, the feeling of them trying to force their way out of his throat, triggering your own orgasm, you come with his name on your lips.

He looks up at you, grinning and swallowing your cum, you cup his cheek and groan his name once more. He leans back licking his lips, chasing the remnants of your cum and the syrup. "You feeling better then?" He asks, his voice sounding a little hoarse, that fucking smirk back on his face. You catch the back of his neck and drag him down for a kiss.

"Yup, you're a good nurse, Punkers."

* * *

**Guest**: I'm happy you're pleased to see my writing! :D Even if it is dubious smut... There's not much, if any, plot in these... I feel I should warn you.

**agd888: **They are based on the the 7 sins... I may have forgotten to mention that! Each chapter is kind of inspired by 1 sin. This once is Gluttony, the first was Lust.

Next Sin will be Greed (I may call it Avarice though because Greed makes me think of FMA and Avarice isn't a word I get to use often enough in China). It'll be along anon.


	3. 7 Sins: Avarice

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: slash, frotting, profanity

* * *

You're looking for a storeroom. The promoter is a tight bastard and the $25 you're being paid is going to cover gas and maybe the hotel room but a man has to eat so you're looking for anything worth ganking. Finally, after finding many locked doors you come to what appears to be a kitchen. The stove in the corner proves to be empty; the fridge contains several catering size bottles of milk, a huge tub of butter and several dozen packets of miscellaneous meat. You stuff in them in the holdall you've taken with you and start riffling through the cupboards, which nets enough paper plates to keep you from having to wash up for at least a month, and a bag of plastic knifes. You freeze when the door opens and slams shut.

"Fuck, nothing again." You stand up and smirk and the pissed looking Punk, his own bag seemingly empty.

"Dunno, Punkers. I've got a good haul." You tell him cheerfully. He scowls, comes over and peeks into your bag.

"Plates?" He shakes his head. "Just fucking wash your dishes, Cabana." You laugh at him and set the bag back down on the floor.

"Too much hassle, buddy" He rolls his eyes and punches your shoulder lightly.

"You're a lazy asshole, that's all." You shrug in agreement, your familiar sheepish smile on your face. He scratches the back of his neck and leans back against one of the counters, his head against the cabinet above it. "There is nothing worth shit here." He thumps his head back against the door of the cabinet and sighs.

One of the most difficult parts of being Punk's friend is reading him. He is a capricious creature. His moods are difficult to predict to the uninitiated but what elevates you from friend to best friend is your ability to notice the ebbs and flows of his temperament and act accordingly, quickly enough for him not to get annoyed with waiting for you. The tide of his annoyance has gone out, in its place is a rather pleasant beach but you need a timescale to be able to judge if you have time to build sandcastles or not.

"Who we waiting on?" You ask, hopping up to sit on the island in the middle of the little kitchen.

"Joe, fucker's in the main event. Should be about twenty." He looks at you and you smirk at him, reach over grab his wrist and pull him to you.

"Plenty of time then." You kiss him, no preamble, no delays, just tongue and lips, hot and a little messy, your hands holding his head still; he returns the kiss just as fiercely, his hands clutching at your shirt, trying to tug it over your head. "No time for that."

"But-" You interrupt whatever it was he was going to say with another kiss and slide down from the counter, guiding him backwards, until he bumps into the counter he had been leaning on earlier. Using one knee, you widen his stance and grind your thigh firmly against his groin, pressing him back over the counter, kissing him fiercely.

"Ah, fucker, do that again." He moans, his voice quiet, the locker room is close enough that if you're too loud, the boys will come to investigate. You smirk and do as he asks. He head thumps back against the cabinet once more, exposing his throat to you so you lick and kiss and bite at it. His breath hot and moist in your ear. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He chants softly. You hoist him up to sit on the counter you had him bent over, spreading his thighs and aligning your cloth-covered crotches, though you feel his erection against your own, the sensation is dulled by the thick material of your jeans. You brace your hands on either side of him, his legs wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him, increasing the pressure. You grind down against him as he bucks up, his lips busy kissing and sucking your neck, his hands in your hair, tugging on it slightly. "Colt." He whines and reaches for your zipper, tugging it down, exposing your hard cock before doing the same to himself and taking both lengths in his hand, stroking hard and fast. The feeling of his cock, slick and warm against your own is more than pleasant, but the sight of your cocks pressed together in his hand, his long slender fingers holding them both together, moving over them makes the feeling sharper.

"Fuck, Punkers." You gasp into his ear, sucking on the patch of skin behind it making him moan. You thrust into his hand, feel the head of his cock drag along the underside of your own. You think that this probably can't feel much better, until he rocks his hips in time with his strokes. Your brain shuts down everything that isn't focussed on him and the sensations from your cock. His fingers tighten and speed up; you feel your orgasm building rapidly. You move your hands from the counter to pull him closer to you, pressing your cocks flat against you abdomens, shirts ridden up with the movement. You kiss him; your hands making a mess of his hair, his hands find purchase on your back and keep you from pulling too far away from him when you feel the need to beath. You keep your hips moving, rubbing your length against his. You come with a moan, pulling away from his lips to bury your face in the crook of his neck. His head falls back against the cabinet door again and he comes quietly, trembling in your arms. You chuckle softly at him, he looks ridiculously pleased with himself, a soft little smile on his lips. You lay a soft kiss on that smile and open your mouth to speak when you hear Ace shouting in the corridor outside the little kitchen.

"Where the fuck are you two reprobates?" You grab some napkins from the dispenser on the island and begin wiping the combination of yours and Punk's cum from yourself. Punk is still smiling at you with a slightly dazed look on his face, making no move to sort himself out so you wipe him down as best you can before Ace comes barging in. You've managed to get your clothes straightened before the door swings open and Ace pokes his head in. "There you are. The fuck you doing?" He asks looking confusedly at you both.

"Shopping." Punk has somehow managed to pull himself together whilst you were distracted and is holding the bag you'd filled with paper plates and plastic cutlery. Ace pulls the very familiar _what have I unleashed on the World_ expression of exasperation he has been perfecting since the ball cocktail incident was relayed to him.

"Gank me some of those nice glasses." Ace makes a vague gesture at the cabinet behind Punk and heads back out the door, before he lets the door swing closed, he adds, a smirk evident in his tone. "Oh and Punk, might want to tie your pants before you leave."

* * *

**alizabethianrose**: Apparently it is my mission to ruin one foodstuff for someone with each fic I write! Comet it was lemons, this it's syrup, next who knows! :D

**bitter-alisa**: I was nervous about that there cameo of Mr Levy... It's a relief I didn't screw him up in the I think one line of dialogue he had! :D PWP is totally what these are. Your "shy hope" was latched onto by my brain that got to thinking on that rather than let me sleep last night. A one-shot was penned into the crazy notebook. It's being typed at the moment. It _may_ be of interest to you.

**Guest**: Dubious smut remains dubious. ;) So glad you're here! It's awesome to find someone who shares my love of Colt/Punk :3

And that was Avarice. Next up is looking like Sloth.

If you have any kinks you'd like me to try my hand at, I am totally open to suggestions, as nothing is really set in stone for this collection, it only has one page in the note, so it could definitely use some meat on its bones, as it were.


	4. 7 Sins: Sloth

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: Profanity, masturbation & an attempt at not being as horrifically maudlin as I usually am. (lemme know if I succeeded)

* * *

You're sure you've see this shitty movie entirely more times than you have ever wanted to but there are, as far as you know, no other VHS in the house and changing it would require moving and at this stage you're not certain you _could _move, even if it was to put something, _anything_ other than Half-Baked on. It was just as the movie was ending for the second time, he woke up long enough to be vaguely coherent and manage a few words rather than just eat, drink and go back to sleep, that he squirmed carefully over to you and placed his head in your lap, apparently, a potentially able to die at any moment and in horrible pain Punk is a cuddler, this was not something you would have ever guessed and whilst you consider snapping a few shots of him snuggled up on your thigh for prosperity and blackmail, right now he seems like too easy of a target. He's slept through the movie once more since he laid his head on you, hasn't moved from his spot and you, at a loss for anything better to do, you have been so very carefully stroking his greasy hair, showering has been ruled out for the most part it would seem, thankfully you can only imagine the delights of trying to navigate a trip to the bathroom.

As the movie starts for a fourth time, he squirms and presses himself to you more fully, essentially dry humping your leg. You aren't overly sure what to do, your first instinct is to get the hell of the bed, leave him and his dreams in peace, you've been there hours and the real World might eventually start to miss you but this instinct is over ruled by the fact you'd have to move his head and you're terrified of hurting him, absolutely petrified that if you don't treat him like glass you'll break him, this fear keeps you from moving him. He rolls onto his back and your heart feels like it's jumped into your throat, he needs to be more careful with himself. His boxers are tented over his obvious erection, hips moving against the air. You quickly come to what is likely a terrible idea and decide that you'll help him out just this one time. You are very glad there is a roll of toilet paper on the table by the bed, for the purposes of wiping away the fluid that's leaking out of his ears, both times you've watched him absently rip a sheet off the roll and swipe at his ears with it, you've felt mildly disturbed; ears should not leak but it will make clean up a little easier. You rip a wad from the roll and leave it in easy reach. You carefully slide his boxers down, exposing his heavy erection, lick your palm and begin jacking him off with long, slow strokes.

You know he isn't going to remember this, that if this incident ever crosses his mind he'll put it down to some kind of weird dream caused by the pressure in his head and strangely you find comfort in this thought. It means you get to miss out on a hellishly awkward conversation. Any conversation that can begin with _Hey! Remember when your skull was fractured and I jacked you off?_ is probably not a conversation you want to have, even with your best friend, hell, especially with your best friend, if said best friend is Punkers.

"I'm right here." He murmurs vaguely, you aren't sure in the least what he's talking about but that is the worst thing about this injury, the vagueness that seems to be omnipresent, it's alarming in a man like Punk. You can't honestly remember the last time he was vague, at least the last time he was vague when his head wasn't slowly knitting itself back together. The hand that isn't wrapped around his cock stroking him, moves his hair from his eyes, he blinks sleepily at you. "Colt?" He sounds a little more focussed, which is at once is good and terrible, how to explain what the fuck you're doing.

"No, it's Santa Claus." You aim for humour and think you fall so far flat it's probably funny anyway.

"I thought you had a beard?" But apparently half-dead Punk is immune to humour, terrible or otherwise, he looks so very distressed by your lack of beard that you laugh at him and feel mildly offended that the only thing he thinks separates you from Father Christmas _is_ a beard.

"It's me. It's Colt." You smooth your free hand over his brow, carefully so carefully, never in all the time you've known him have you been this careful with him but you're so very scared of hurting him when he's like this, when he seems so very breakable, when he's so _fragile_.

"Huh? But." He trails off confused; you stroke him a little faster hoping to distract him. It appears to work when he smiles in an odd hazy fashion and moans. "Feels good." His voice is terrifyingly soft; you suddenly hope this isn't some kind of weird before death erection. You vehemently wish that you'd done more research on skull fractures than starting to read the Wikipedia article and deciding it had too many big words for you to bother with. If he dies from coming, you're going to have so much, incredibly awkward explaining to do.

He makes that tiny soft moan again and bucks his hips into your hand. You freeze, that is definitely not something he should be doing. You half-remember the doctors saying that he shouldn't do anything strenuous for at least x number of months, three or four maybe it was six, you forget but you're sure that for this, he's going to have to keep himself under control.

"You gotta be still, Punkers." You tell him, letting go of his cock and holding his hips down with both hands. He looks thoroughly confused, as though he can't fathom why he'd not be allowed to thrust into your hand. "Don't need you making your head worse." You clarify for him and he frowns slightly but seems to understand and be restraining himself, he doesn't move beyond breathing and blinking as you start moving your hand slowly up and down his cock once more, his pre-come lubricating your strokes.

You try to keep a steady pace, slow and languid but he's so curiously _pretty_, you don't think that's quite the word you want but he's the one with all the big words not you, in arousal that you can't help but to speed up your strokes trying to take him even further down this path. He keeps making those incredibly soft little gasping moans and you think that you should probably not being enjoying causing them quite this much. His face and body are flushed, a thin gleam of sweat on his skin, similar to the flush and sweat of the ring but subtly different, there he just looks like a sweaty exhausted mess, here in this dark little room in the light of the shit movie playing on the TV, moaning in arousal, your hand around his dick, he looks hot. As far as revelations of your friend's physical attractiveness go, this causes you less distress than you think it should but Punkers is, like this at least, incredibly attractive, you feel your own cock twitch in your pants. It would be so very easy to take this farther, so very easy to convince him to do anything when he's like this, eyes hazy, pupils fully blown, so lost in arousal. You stroke his hair with your free hand, as cautiously as you have been all this time and think of the pain he's in, a stab of shame fills you, you're already taking advantage of him and here you are planning to make the situation worse, planning who knows what. You stare down at him, his chest heaving and start to remove your hand from him, when his own clutches at your wrist.

"Don't! Close." He looks at you pleadingly. "Please, Colt. I'm so close." His voice sounds firmer than it has the whole time you've been in this little dark room with him, he sounds so much more like your Punkers that you can't deny him this. You speed your hand up and move the other to caress his chest, pinch his nipples, roll his balls, touching him everywhere you can reach and are sure won't cause him pain. His breathing is heavy and quick, you feel his balls tightening in your grip. He quivers slightly as he comes; you feel panic rising, rapidly convincing yourself that your actions will have caused irreparable damage to him. Your panic overrides your concern for what you should do with you cum covered hand but you do have the presence of mind to wipe your hand on the toilet tissue you ripped of the roll earlier before clutching at his shoulders. "Punkers." You keep your voice soft. "Punkers, you okay?" He makes a vague noncommittal noise and smiles absently up at you.

"Hmm? Colt? I'm sleepy." He closes his eyes and drifts away to sleep again. You sit on the bed beside him, absently stroking his hair, so very carefully and try to think of a better way to start the conversation, the horrifically awkward conversation you want to have with him when he's recovered, than, _Hey! Remember when your skull was fractured and I jacked you off?_

* * *

**bitter-alisa**: Raven and I aren't friends yet so he's staying out of this (Sorry Mentor! : ) BDSM for Wrath is a distinct possibility though! :D

**Guest**: I'm not too sure on Colt in this one, my only reasoning is he's much younger at this stage and I fear I tend to ignore his innate goofiness sometimes, so I tried to capture it a bit better than usual. Lemme know how I did!

**alizabethianrose**: The Joe/Punk shoot is hilarious... I love Joe, he's a hilarious mofo. :3 You're high praise means a lot to me! :D

Sloth down, next up is Wrath I think.

If you have any kinks you'd like me to try my hand at, I am totally open to suggestions, as nothing is really set in stone for this collection, it only has one page in the note, so it could definitely use some meat on its bones, as it were.


	5. 7 Sins: Wrath

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: slash, light BDSM, top!Punk, profanity.

* * *

You don't do this often, playing with his volatile temper can backfire quite spectacularly. Several times this has gone entirely opposite to the way you wanted and you've been left high and dry with nothing but your right hand for company. Other times it has gone perfectly, other times you have poked and prodded and pushed at him, making him snap and you've ended up perfectly content with the results. You're pretty sure he's leaning towards snarling at you in a huff and storming off right now though; it's a dangerous game Punk-baiting. Redeeming the situation, keeping him on the right side of pissed is difficult _but_ you've had practice and a few choice words has him scowling at you but looking infinitely less likely to leave.

You keep your poking careful until he finally snaps and grabs your hand, dragging you to your bedroom. Once there, he clutches at your shoulders and pulls you into what could be a kiss but feels more like a battle, all teeth and violence. His fingers sharp little points of pressure where they dig into your flesh. You find yourself becoming a boneless lump, completely at his mercy, letting him dominate you. He tugs at your shirt, pulling it over your head and makes quick work of your pants and underwear, you're very grateful for the fact you'd taken your shoes off earlier, your socks, though, can be ignored for now, you suppose. His hands skim down your flanks as you're bent over the bed, your ass in the air, head pressed down to the mattress.

"Pissed me off on purpose, huh?"He asks as his hand snakes round to grab your cock, already half-hard at being so exposed to him. You don't answer him, not to confirm, nor to deny, you've learnt that talking to him once you're naked and the outcome of the situation seems likely, can make him change his mind, you've had him walk out even further into the scene before. You can't talk as fast as his mind can convince him this is a bad idea. You aren't sure there is _anything_ as fast as Punk's mind when it is trying to dissuade him from things that will be thoroughly pleasurable in the end but are different to his established routine, he's a creature of surprisingly rigid habits. So instead of a verbal answer, you rock into his hand; actions speak far louder than words after all. "Can't just leave well enough alone, can you?" His hand comes down on your ass, you gasp, the pain is sharp and stinging. "Fucking stay," Another slap, "the fuck," another, "out," a third, "of my fucking business." Each word punctuated by a harsh smack to your ass, his hand gently rubs over your smarting flesh as he says softly, "If I wanted you involved, I'd ask, fucker." You shiver; his gentle touch somehow is at once soothing and painful. "Nothing to say, fucker?" His voice is in your ear, his fully clothed body pressed along your back, the denim of his jeans rough over your tender ass.

"Turn over." His voice is low and rough; it brokers no argument so you comply as quickly as possible, lying on your back, legs spread slightly, arms at your side and stare up at him. "Stay there. Don't move." He leaves the room, his baggy jeans are tented slightly at his groin; you feel a smirk stretching your lips, you did that to him. You hear him rooting around in your lounge and consider asking him what he's looking for but eventually you hear him coming back. In his hand is a roll of athletic tape, he grabs the lube on his way back to the bed and smirks at you. He snatches your right wrist and binds it to the headboard of your bed with the tape; he repeats the action on your left side. You tug on the bonds out of instinct, when they don't give; he smirks and leans back on his haunches. He uncaps the bottle of lube and slicks one finger, roughly plunging it into you, moving it back and forth rapidly. You struggle against the tape again.

"Easy, Punkers." He snorts at you but at least relents slightly, prepping you more carefully, easing the second and third fingers in more gently, scissoring them in you, stretching your body wider for him. You start to rock against his fingers, enjoying the way they caress your body from the inside, his other hand takes a hold of your cock and jerks it at the same pace, you buck into the strokes, enjoying his ministrations.

Eventually, he deems you ready and unzips his pants, freeing his cock, strokes it to full hardness, covers it with lube and ploughs into you with little preamble. You strain against the tape binding your wrists at the force of his thrust. "Fuck Punkers." You grunt at him and he smirks at you.

"What?" He pulls back and drives back into you with the same force. "I thought you _wanted_ it rough." His voice keeps that deep, dark tone. He pounds into you. You try to keep yourself from tensing, try to keep your breathing regular but the power he's putting behind his thrusts keeps robbing you of air. He shows no sign of letting up, keeping his strokes long and hard and deep, nudging your prostate, the rough fabric of his pants rubbing your tender ass. The only sounds you're capable of making are soft grunts as he fucks you. You keep trying to pull your hands free, desperate for some friction for your cock, the rough fabric of his clothes as they rub against your body is tantalising but nowhere near enough for you to get off.

"Punkers." You manage to grind out, he meets your eyes and raises an eyebrow at you, you look down your body trying to give him the message without saying anything. He keeps pounding into you, either not getting the non-verbal message or waiting for you to ask him for a hand. "Please, Punkers." He smirks at you and you can tell he's considering leaving you as you are. To sway him to your point of view, you squeeze your body around him tightly and his pace falters, his smirk falls away and you smile at him. "Please." You moan, he kisses you with surprising care and his hand grasps your cock, he strokes it in time with his thrusts into your body.

"Hurry up and fucking come already, fucker." He pants, his breath hot and heavy in your ear and starts licking and biting at your neck. You feel your orgasm building rapidly. His cock moving inside you, his hand moving over your cock, the sensations finally overwhelm you and you come with a cry of what is possibly his name, dimly you're aware of him coming inside you, the feeling of his cum an odd, warm rush inside you.

When you finally manage to compose yourself, he's gotten undressed and is pulling, gnawing and swearing under his breath at the tape that's binding your left wrist to the headboard, trying to free you, your right wrist already unbound at some stage after you came.

"You want a hand, Punkers?" Your voice sounds far too amused for your own good, you think but he ignores you in favour of ripping the last of the tape off, freeing your arm, letting you wrap it around the back of his neck, pull him down to you and claim his mouth a fierce kiss. "Thanks Punkers." You tell him, he looks slightly embarrassed and mildly confused, as he always does on nights like these, nights where you've goaded him into fucking you hard and fast and dirty. It's like there is some part of you that even he, who knows you inside out and back to front, doesn't quite understand and you're pleased with this part, the part he doesn't get, pleased that it keeps him from getting complacent, from getting bored with you, like he's done with so many other people. You let him settle in your arms, feel the weight of his head against your shoulder.

"I swear to fuck, Cabana, I will never get why the fuck you enjoy that shit." He mutters. You chuckle and press a kiss to his forehead.

"Well you've nothing on tomorrow." A leer comes over you face. "I could show you."

* * *

**alizabethianrose**: Great minds thinking alike or fools seldom differing I wonder? (haha) I've never actually seen half-baked... I kind of felt like I should watch but I somehow don't think it's my kind of movie! Thank you so much for the plug in chapter 3 of **Path to Hate** and even more so for the encouragement and compliments you give me! :D

**Guest**: I remember you saying in a review of Comet that you liked a sleepy/taken care of Punk so I wrote Sloth with you in mind. I'm _SO_ happy it hit the mark for you! :D (skull fracture is a major plot point of **Path to Hate**, btw ;) I so love your reviews... I should possibly not read them in class though, my poor students get so confused as to why I'm skipping about more than usual.)

Envy's up next, I think, the actual premise for it has change about 9000 times so far, so if you have any suggestions _please_ do let me know! :D


	6. 7 Sins: Envy

2nd person Colt person pov Warnings: Masturbation, slash, profanity

* * *

When you agreed to do this with Brendon, it seemed like a good idea; a month in Scotland, a month of comedy, wrestling and good times. When you mentioned it to him, he didn't seem too impressed, though if you're honest, he's been in a mood since the start of the year. You had hoped he would mellow out over the time he took away from the ring but if anything he seems more on edge and more annoyed. He's tired of wrestling, you can see it when you look at him and it's painful to witness. Wrestling used to be the one thing he actually loved but it's like 2011 all over again, he's tired and stressed and hurt, only this time his contract isn't up in a few weeks, there's months to go and you're not there when he needs to bitch at you, you're in Scotland with Brendon and he's in Chicago, probably on his own because he's being a salty asshole and no one will or can deal with him when he's in a mood but you. He is at least interested in working with Lesnar, is pretty sure that it'll be an interesting match and he seems to be enjoying cutting duelling promos with Heyman so that's something, it seems to be making him at least manageable.

Since you've been over here, he's made it a habit to call every other night, you thank Skype for it's being free, the tight asshole wouldn't bother if he had to pay. His calls come at about 22:00 your time, the afternoon for him so it's usually from some random locker-room, whilst you're grateful for the updates on home, you can't shake the feeling that he's really calling for the sake of his own sanity. Every time he looks a little more tired, the bags under his eyes a little bigger, his skin a little paler, his hair a little more of a mess. You talk of inconsequential things, how Scotland is, how the fans are reacting to your show, your growing addiction to lion bars, Grado and the now constant "Colt Cabana, it's yersel"s that you're receiving. You try to get him to talk to you about what's going on with him but he diverts your questions and turns them back on you so artfully that you don't notice that's what he's done until you click hang-up.

When your laptop rings, you answer and get a lovely shot of Punk's lounge, or at least of the ludicrously large flat-screen in the room, which appears to be playing a documentary about some serial killer, there are times when you think Punkers would be a therapist's dream. "Punkers!" You shout over the connection, it seems _unlikely _that he'd have called just to make you watch some shit on his TV but then again maybe he did, it's difficult to say really.

"You sitting there waiting for me to call, fucker?" Your view is changed to a shot of the empty sofa, his hand holding a cup of something appears in shot and goes off screen as the rest of him appears. "Figured I'd have time to fix a coffee before you answered." He sits Indian style and smiles at you, a surprisingly open smile; he looks content, almost happy. You talk of nothing for a long while, the topics rambling and comfortable. You think that maybe whatever has been bugging him as been dealt with until you ask him about work. He shifts uncomfortably, unfolding his legs from their familiar crossed fashion to rest his feet on the sofa, knees pressed to his chest, arms looped around his legs.

"It's fine." The answer is short and tells you very little, the resolution on your cheap laptop isn't sufficient to get a good look at his eyes; he waves one hand in a dismissive fashion. "Don't wanna talk about it. Talk to me, fucker." You look at him confused; you've been talking for the best part of an hour now. You're going to have to leave soon if you don't want to be late.

"What about, Punkers?" You ask him and he signs, frustrated. You watch him yank his shirt over his head and pull his shorts off, leaving him naked on his sofa in front of you.

"Would you fuck me? If you were here." He asks, you bark a laugh,_ that's_ what's been bothering him. He looks mildly offended.

"Of course! Of course, Punkers. If phone sex was what you wanted, you could have just asked, asshole." You chuckle at him again and he is definitely getting annoyed with you. "I'd fuck you _so _hard you wouldn't be able to sit for a week, if I was there." You smirk, he rolls his eyes.

"Promises, promises. Besides you're probably all fucked out from those limey _rats_."

"_Really_, Punkers?" You smirk at him, he's jealous, how unexpectedly cute and thoroughly hypocritical but entirely expected. He almost perpetually has a girlfriend and still on occasion has sex with you and you don't even raise an eyebrow, at first you felt guilty about it but over time it's grown to not bother you. You on the other hand, rarely have a girlfriend, you're usually close at hand and his jealousy makes sense in some weird Punk-logic way. He frowns and waves his hand again.

"Talk to me, fucker. You promised me phone sex, now provide." You have absolutely no idea what to say, you find yourself fumbling for words, several false starts and vague noises leave your throat. He's sitting his feet planted on the floor, legs spread, cock in his hand slowly stroking himself, looking at you but the expression in his eyes isn't readable, you're buying a better laptop when you get home, something with a HD screen. "Well? I'm waiting, fucker. If you were here, what would you do to me?" His voice is completely deadpan, you nod at him and go and grab a glass of water, you have to leave in twenty minutes, twenty minutes to talk him into an orgasm and yourself out of one, you hate your life and him at this moment in time.

"That's not something I put a lot of thought into."

"You don't think about me?" He sounds offended, again.

"No, no, I _do_, I think about you! I think about you a lot but when," In your mind you fumble for the right words, "We're together, it's like I don't _need _to think." He smiles slightly.

"So what did you think of me doing last?" His hand hasn't stopped moving over his cock.

"I," A thousand different images flicker through you mind. "That time you blew me in the Monte, it was freezing cold and it broke down in the ass-end of nowhere and neither of our cells had power left and you were down on your knees with my dick in your mouth." You watch as his head falls back to rest on the back of the sofa. "Or the time I fucked you on that sofa in Gabe's office, you remember?" He nods his head slightly. "You were convinced that someone was going to walk in and find you with my cock in your ass, you kept tensing up, so fucking tight, Punkers. You're always so fucking tight but that day, fuck. Your ass was incredible."

He lifts his feet, plants them on the sofa and draws his thighs up to his chest, his hard cock, his hairless balls and tight little hole all exposed to you. You feast your eyes over them, even though your shitty laptop may not be the best quality, the image it shows at this moment is truly breath-taking.

"Fuck, Punkers. You're so beautiful, baby." You say softly, no matter how many times you've seen him like this, it never fails to excite you but something changes in his posture, his body goes from relaxed to tense in seconds and you scramble to work out what you've done.

"Baby?" His tone is indignant. "Fuck you, Cabana." He moves, straightens himself, his legs tucked up Indian style to scowl at you. "I'm fucking older than you are. Fucking _baby_." He snorts. You struggle to keep a straight face; Punkers can be irritated by the oddest of things.

"Sorry, Punkers." You smile sheepishly at him and his scowl lessens slightly, he relaxes and stretches his legs out again

"You fucking call me _baby_ again and I am fucking hanging up and not talking to you for a week." You know that what you're going to say next will rile him up but you can't resist and it _might_ amuse him more than irritate him and if it does irritate him at least you won't have to think of an excuse for being late, you'll have to deal with a pissed off Punk but Brendon is closer to you and as such a more pressing concern right now.

"Sure thing, _babe." _You smirk at him and he hangs up. Well, fuck, that was kind of what you had expected but still, you feel like an asshole, you sigh and flop back against your bed. You really should get going.

You get back to your apartment for the month just after 03:00. Your laptop still perched on the end of the bed. You feel a little guilty for purposely irritating Punkers, he'd seemed like he had been in a pretty good mood for a change but it's done and there's not much you can do about it now. You know from experience that if you call, he'll hang up or be offline. An angry Punk is generally best left to cool down on his own, his temper runs hot but quick with you, he'll calm down soon enough.

It's just after 04:00 when Skype rings, it doesn't quite surprise you to see that it's him, what does surprise you is the picture that greets you when the call connects. He's sat crossed legged with a very familiar quilt over his head, his legs bare and it appears as though he's wearing one of your shirts. The room is dark but you suppose that he's at your place. He looks thoroughly miserable.

"Hey." You say softly. "You okay?" He frowns and sighs, looking off camera at something to his right, the clock on your bedside table you suppose. "It's after 4 but I wasn't sleeping." You tell him and he turns back to the camera with a nod. You both sit in silence for a length of time that really should feel more awkward than it does but you two don't do awkward, there is no room for awkward between you.

"I'm tired." He says suddenly, if ever there was a dangerous phrase to come from the mouth of CM Punk it's that one; being tired has led to all kinds of terrible decisions on both of your parts, great and terrible decisions. You know telling him to go to sleep won't help, you're not there to _put_ him to sleep, which leaves you with the previously promised phone sex.

"I wouldn't." You say and you watch the slightly pixellated Punk on your screen processing what you've just said, you wait till he opens his mouth to speak and beat him to it. "I'd kiss you; kiss you till I couldn't hold my breath anymore." A lazy smile spreads over his lips. "Then I'd kiss you again." His smile gets wider. "Then I'd stroke your ears cause it annoys you but you'd smile, you'd smile just like that and you're beautiful when you smile, Punkers." He tries to scowl at you but can't quite manage it, so he flops onto his back instead, in the light of the laptop you can see he doesn't appear to be wearing underwear.

"I'm not some woman, fucker, I don't need you to tell me you're gonna stroke my hair and kiss my neck. Just tell me that you're gonna stick your dick in me." His voice sounds distant, a hint of embarrassment in it.

"But I would." You protest. "I'd totally kiss your neck; you make this really hot little noise when I do that." You see his arm moving, you imagine he's trailing his fingers over his throat, probably in the same path you always kiss him. "Definitely kiss you behind your ear." He makes a soft noise and you know that he's stroking that spot where that tattoo is. "Probably your collar bone too." His other hand up under the shirt to trail over there. You smile slightly, unzip your pants and reach for the bottle of lube you've got on the bedside table. He squirms slightly, playing with his own nipples, you watch him, his legs parting further, you wish the camera was at a better angle but you can see enough. "I'd be jacking you by now." You tell him, one hand leaves his chest to take his cock in his hand. He makes another soft noise. "Second drawer."

"Huh?" He sits up confused.

"Lube, that dildo we used a while back, should be a condom in there too, use it before you put it inside you."

"Presumptuous fucker, aren't you?" He mutters, moving to pull your shirt over his head.

"Leave it." He glances at the screen and shrugs, leaving your shirt in place; you have an odd fondness for him in your clothes, even more so him in your clothes, in your bedand that despite you not being in the same country, same time-zone, he sought out your home to sleep in, the old familiar burst of happiness flickers through you. His habit of seeking you out has sparked terrible arguments between him and ex-girlfriends, between you and his ex-girlfriends. These arguments are one of the many reasons you're okay with being single.

"Whatever. Second drawer?" His upper body vanishes out of shot, leaving you with a view of his ass and those gorgeous legs of his; he's rolling a condom over the dildo when he comes back fully into shot. "Happy?" You feel a grin taking over your face.

"Ecstatic." You tell him dryly. "_So_, hand on cock. Lube, plenty of lube." He smirks at you, you're sure if the image was sharper you would see his eyes laughing at you with victory at your less _feminine_ phraseology. He follows your directions though and pours lube into his palm and takes his cock in hand, jacking himself off. "Slower, play with your balls too." You tell him, he's moved so that he's propped against the pillows, the light catching his eyes, allowing you to see the entire length of his lean body, he's looking thinner again, you have half a mind to try those juice diets he's taken to but you don't think Subway subs would taste all that good blended up. His left hand rolls his balls, gently teasing them. You watch as his breathing speeds up slightly."Enough." He makes a disapproving noise. "Suck it." You tell him, you're certain in his head he's making a terrible DX joke but he does grab the dildo and takes it into his mouth, he moves his head back and forth a few times, before lowering his arm, panting slightly. "Lube, finger yourself for me, Punkers." You find yourself making the request softly; it's so easy to replace that fake cock with your own, to picture your own body pressing him down, to taste his lips. He eases one finger inside his body, his feet planted on the bed, his legs bent at the knees. "You have the prettiest fucking legs, you know that, Punkers?" He snorts.

"Still not a woman, Cabana. I'm fucking manly, ruggedly handsome at most, _not pretty_." He sounds mildly pissed but is still working his finger inside his body, with his other hand he starts jacking himself again.

"Didn't say _you _were pretty, though. Your legs, _they_ are fucking pretty. You, you're kinda scruffy." He snorts. "Another finger." Then moans as he follows your instructions, thrusting two fingers in and out of himself. "Spread them. Open yourself up, Punkers." He moans softly as he grazes his prostate. You start stroking yourself, watching him stretching himself open, watching him jacking his own cock. "Suck me." You groan lost in the image in your head and on the screen.

"Huh?" He looks at you blankly for a few seconds before letting go of his cock and grabbing the dildo, slipping it past his lips again, moving it in and out of his mouth.

"Deeper." He slides it further down his throat. "Far as you can, Punkers." His deep-throating capabilities are not spectacular but he can take at least two-thirds of the dildo easily, not the half he's working currently. "More, Punkers. Come on, you can do better than that." He slides more of the fake cock down his throat slowly, you can see him struggling a little and feel a rush of pride that he'd struggle for you, strive to make you happy. "That's it. Another finger." He groans around the dildo and eases a third finger inside his ass. He pulls the dildo from his mouth and pants.

"Need you, fuck, need you home, with me." You smile at him, stroking yourself faster.

"Soon, Punkers. Fuck yourself for me." He nods; you know if you could see them, his eyes would be glassy and glazed in arousal. He takes his fingers from his body and slides the dildo in their place. His head falls back against the pillows, his hips arching off the bed as he inserts it fully into himself. He slowly eases it out, his pace mimicking the one you usually use on him. "Stroke your cock."

"Fucker, I only have two hands." He grunts. He rearranges himself, so that the dildo is resting on the bed and he is knelt over it. He fucks it slowly in this position, letting you watch his body moving slowly up and down over it, his hand stroking his cock, you match his pace.

"Faster." You tell him, as he speeds up the only sounds you're capable of making are grunts and moans. You wish you were more technologically adept; this is a video you would love to keep. His moans of pleasure increase in volume and frequency until finally he comes, his cum landing on your shirt. You watch him flop back against the pillows, licking his cum from his fingers and come to that image.

Once his breathing returns to normal, he removes the dildo from inside himself and tosses it off camera, to the side somewhere. He wriggles down the bed and pillows his head on his arms, so close to the camera you can see the sweat in his hair.

"When will you be home?" His voice is soft and sleepy.

"End of the month. You be in Chicago?"

"Yes." He says firmly, his face close enough to the camera for you to see the determination in his eyes.

"Where you _supposed _to be?" You ask him.

"Don't care. I'm tired. I'll _be_ at home, Colt." He tells you as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

**bitter-alisa: **Oh great Mentor, your minion is once more slightly more drunk than they should be and thankfully sent a PM to respond to your review properly. I _so_ look forward to 7 Virtues! Thank you so much for the praise! Tis an elixir to my writing muses! I only hope this chaper is somewhat okay. :D

**Guest**: Totally, Sloth was your chapter, your vague comment that you enjoyed a being take care of Punk inspired it! I can only hope to continue to be acceptably competent in portraying our boys. :3

**alizabethianrose**: I totally 3 your reviews! Thank you for the encouragement! :D

Final chapter, Pride to come, I have a vague idea but if you have something better let me know!


	7. 7 Sins: Pride

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings: slash, smut, dubious sappiness

* * *

When you went to pick him up to take him out to celebrate, you're sure the most excited person there was Ace, he was busy telling anyone who'd listen how proud he was of Punk, how proud he was that the _dirty kid_ was the Champion, his _dirty kid_ was the WWE Champion. As the night goes on and the more Ace drinks, the more long winded and rambling his speeches on Punk get. Punk for the most part just looks at once horribly embarrassed and ridiculously pleased every time Ace throws an arm around his shoulders and buys him another Pepsi. You suppose this is probably still a novelty for Punk, not just winning the strap but having a _father figure_, you hate to use the phrase but it fits well enough, who is genuinely proud of him. All of your life you've had your parents behind you, you've had their support and love and bank balance backing you but Punkers, he's got the family he chose and that's pretty much it. You can see benefits to choosing your family but there's something special about your dad clapping you on the back and saying _well done, son_, and sure enough there is the clapping and the well done-ing. Punk fidgets, looking even more embarrassed, you decide to rescue him, before Ace starts telling the story of Punk's career from their first meeting to what happened at the Allstate a few hours ago, again, for what is you're certain the thousandth time.

"Punkers!" You throw your arms around him and squeeze him, guiding him towards the door, Ace following along behind. "Let's go eat!"

"Uh, sure. Pancakes?" Punk grins at you and you return it.

"I think, I'm going home." Ace mutters, he looks a little green.

"No pancakes?" Punk sounds vaguely hopeful as he asks; you think that there is only so much praise even Punk can take in one night.

"Nope." Ace shakes his head and wraps Punk in a fierce hug. "I'm proud of you, Phil. You did good." You fidget from one foot to the other as Punk hides his face against Ace's neck, you meet the Ace's eyes and he moves one arm from around Punk, pulling you into the hug, Punk sandwiched between you both awkwardly. "Who'd have thought you pair of reprobates would end up actually coming good." He laughs and lets you both go, hails a cab and leaves. You feel Punk shaking slightly as you stand still plastered to his back, you squeeze him tightly.

"So IHOP?" You step away from him and he nods, wiping at his eyes under the pretence of fixing his cap. You order a ridiculous amount of food and watch him demolish vast numbers of pancakes, which sit swimming in syrup, you eat at a more sedate pace and wonder how much he'll bitch about how fat he is once he realises how many he's eaten. When the check comes, you wave his money away, "My treat, Punkers." and walk to his place, making sure he doesn't get himself killed as he spends more time staring at his belt than he does looking at his surroundings.

Once there you both flop on the sofa, watch shit TV, drink soda and talk shit for hours.

"Well Champ, what'd you wanna do now?" You ask him, he's still grinning like an idiot at the championship title sitting on his coffee table. You nudge his leg with your foot "Punkers?"

"Think he meant it?" He asks you quietly.

"Who?"

"Ace." He mutters, still looking at the belt. You laugh and swat the back of his head.

"Course! We're _all_ so fucking proud of you, Punkers!" You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him to you, his head resting on your shoulder; you press a kiss to the top of his head, grateful that he washed the gel out of his hair before he came out to celebrate. You don't particularly like the Gordon Gekko look he's sporting at the moment; he's not really the evil lawyer type. "So, back to my question: what do you want to do, Punkers?" He squirms out from under your arm and stands, offering you his hand and hauls you to your feet.

"Fuck me." He says plainly and starts dragging you to his bedroom.

"With your seduction skills, Punkers, it's no wonder the ladies fall over themselves to get into your pants." You mutter and hear him snort.

"You're a lady now, Cabana?" He lets go of your hand and starts taking off his clothes. "You fucking me like that?" He asks once he's naked, you let your eyes flit over him; he looks good, thinner than when he was younger but good, more toned and his legs, well they've always been his best feature, you're eternally grateful for his decision to start wrestling in trunks, tiny, tiny trunks. He flops onto his bed and sits on the end of it, those lovely legs of his splayed wide. You undress slowly. "I didn't bring my wallet, if you're wanting a tip, Colt. Hurry up." You finish stripping and sink to your knees between his spread legs.

"How'd you want it, Champ?" You ask him, running your hands up his calves.

"You wanna fuck Cena now?" He snaps and you roll your eyes at him, pressing soft kisses to his pretty, pretty thighs.

"How would you like to be fucked, Punkers?" You say deliberately and mouth at his balls, his legs spread wider and he flops backwards.

"I want your dick in my mouth and your tongue in my ass." He says moving up the bed, you follow him. "Sixty-nine, first." You raise an eyebrow at him.

"First?"

"Yes, first. If you don't like it, I'm sure the _Champ_ is still in town, maybe you can go commiserate with him. I'm sure he'll be needing some TLC."

"Isn't that like in the fall?" You ask, kissing his neck. He looks at you like you're an idiot and moves his head to catch your lips in a kiss.

"December. On your back." You do as he asks and he straddles your body, taking your half-hard cock into his mouth. You've never really understood his fondness for sucking you to erection but it feels damn good so you don't argue. His cock hangs over your face and you lean up to suckle on the tip. "Ass not cock." He snaps and you chuckle, swatting at the firm little ass in front of you.

"Pushy little asshole aren't you, Punkers. Patience is a fucking virtue, you know?" You lick his balls and suck your finger, wetting it and brush it over his hole, pressing slightly. He moans softly and takes your cock back in his mouth. You grasp his hips firmly and raise your head, licking over his hole, tapping your tongue against it, before pushing inside. You lazily fuck his hole with your tongue, as you feel your cock hardening in the hot, wet confines of his mouth. "Where's the lube?" You ask him eventually. He's a vague moaning mess on top of you, your cock fully hard and his mouth on your balls.

"Uh? Table?" He manages to moan as you blow over his hole. You pat his thigh and he collapses on to his side, chest heaving, trying to get himself back under control. You smirk at him and grab the little bottle from the table by his bed.

"So how do you want it?" You ask him, snuggling up behind him, pressing little kisses to his left shoulder, tracing the Pepsi globe there with your tongue.

"Like this is good." He murmurs. You chuckle at him and raise his left leg.

"Keep it there." You tell him as you pour some lube into your hand, and slide one slicked finger into him, usually you'd draw out prepping him, there's something terribly satisfying about watching him writhe on your fingers but his leg is wavering and he sounds so wonderfully needy as he moans, that you speed through it, slicking and stretching him quickly before spreading more lube over your cock. You slowly rock into his body, easing your length into him gently to make up for the rushed prep, a little more each time you move, with every shallow thrust he moans softly. You stroke his thigh, caressing the smooth skin and place small kisses on his shoulder. He rocks back against you, a tactic indication that he'd like you deeper inside him so you thrust more firmly, feeling his body accepting your cock fully. He gives a long drawn out moan and reaches behind himself, feeling your balls where they sit nestled against his ass, feeing where your bodies are joined with gentle touches and questing fingers. You've always thought the mirror on his closet door was tacky but now as you lay behind him, chest to his back, your cock deep inside of him, you're grateful that it lets you see his face, his soft expression, his hazy eyes. "Feels good?" You ask him softly, your lips hovering over his shoulder so you can keep pressing kisses there.

"Yeah." He murmurs, "Really fucking good. Now move, fucker." Even soft and content, Punkers is still rather salty, you smile against his skin and start to move, rocking in and out carefully, drawing your movements out, long and slow and so very deep. He moans again, soft and gentle and takes his cock in his right hand, stroking at your pace. You slide your right arm under him to stroke his chest, watching your fingers move over the ink there, the colours glistening with the light sheen of sweat building on his skin, you left hand stroking his thigh, caressing his smooth skin, his left hand catches yours and tangles your fingers together, bringing them to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. "More, faster." His breath soft, warm little puffs of air over your fingers. You speed up, the position is a little awkward to really, truly fuck him so you pull out and sit up, back against the headboard and you tug him up to you. He straddles your thighs and guides your cock back inside his body. You wrap your arms around him as his wind around you; you kiss him deeply as he moves, up and down, the muscles of his thighs working to keep his pace steady. He speeds up and you thrust up into him, making him gasp your name. You move against each other, the pace increasing, both straining to come, stroking skin, sharing long, lingering kisses, licking at exposed throats. His right hand eventually wraps back around his cock and he pumps in time with your fucking and he comes with a cry of your real name, making you smile against his throat. You feel his body ripple around you with his orgasm and you come with your forehead pressed to his shoulder. You feel yourself soften within him, feel him squeezing your length and whilst the idea of getting hard and fucking him again has appeal, you're tired and he must be exhausted. You raise him up and slide out of him. He flops over onto his side and smiles at you. You move his hair out of his eyes.

"I hate the evil lawyer hair." You find yourself telling him. "Grow it out."

"Too bad." He laughs and snuggles up to you. "No chance in hell am I growing it back out, if anything's happening, it's getting shaved off again. Much easier to deal with." He yawns, his breath warm over your neck. "G'night Colt." He mutters.

"Don't shave it if you grow your beard again, looked weird, Punkers." You tell him stroking his back slowly and kiss his forehead. "Night." You feel him squirming in your hold as you begin to fall asleep, a soft kiss is pressed to your lips and he settles back down on your chest to sleep.

You wake up alone; you make the bed and go in search of him, finding him sitting on his balcony staring out over your city. The Championship title is sat beside him and his phone is in pieces on the ground. "You're proud of me, right?" He says as you step out to join him. His voice has that very specific tone, the _something has happened with someone and you know who the someone is but don't expect me to explain it because it's not worth it_ tone. You wrap your arms around him, smother him in your embrace and kiss him softly, a brief thought goes out to the dirt sheets but fuck them right now; he needs you more than you need your reputation.

"So fucking proud of you, Punkers, more than you'll ever know." You tell him, squeezing him tightly. He may not have the support of the people he's related to but he has the family he's chosen and as you hold him tightly, you're so proud to be one of them.

* * *

**Guest the first**: I hate writing dialogue... I spend a great deal of time thinking _no one_ would ever say that, ever and then reading it out loud in my house to see if it sounds excessivly stupid, it makes me very glad my neighbours don't have very good English at all. (Dialogue is my biggest bugbear in fiction, sometimes it's just so horribly done.) _**SO**_I am super flattered you think mine is okay! :D I'm more than to write something else for you! If you've anything else you think would make a good wee yarn, let me know and I'll see what I can come up with! :D

**Guest the Second**: Thank you so much! :3 I'm glad you enjoyed my random little smutty pieces. (I have actually written a real story too [there's smut and abuse of defenceless citrus fruit and a plot and everything] and I'll stop plugging my own shit now)

And that's it. All done! Comments, criticisms, prompts all accepted gratefully.

Many thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed or just gotten past the first chapter. You're wonderful people and totally keep me motivated.

Special thanks goes, as ever, to my mentor, **bitter-alisa**, go read her stuff.


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